


Trials of the Faithful

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2858468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the youngest of four, Myra Trevelyan expected nothing more than to vanish into the Chantry's welcome arms - but the Maker has another plan for her, stripping her of kin and pushing her into the most arduous trials of her faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Ostwick

In the cool air of the Ostwick Chantry, the youngest Trevelyan child prays. The world is troubled and uneasy, and the Chant provides solace for those who seek it. She is jolted out of prayer by a familiar panicked whisper.

“Myra! Myra, hide me!”

“Gawain, you can’t –“ But her brother does not let her finish, sliding down the aisle with practised ease and scrambling under the pew she sits on. She sighs, hands folding in her lap with a patience that does not come from her time in the Chantry. “Who have you upset this time?”

“ _Sshh!_ ”

Behind her, the clanging footsteps of armour silence both of them, and she does not turn to look up at the source of the shadow that falls over her.

“Lady Myra, what an unexpected pleasure.”

She smiles cordially, looking up to the not-unexpected face of a prominent lord. “Lord Frederick, the pleasure is all mine. Though, my Lord, I am no longer Lady. My initiation began last week. What brings you to the Chantry this morn?”

“It pains me to ask, my dear, but have you seen your brother?”

“Which one eludes your grasp today?” The look he gives her is clear – it would _only_ be Gawain – but she smiles in reply innocently enough.

“Gawain. I wish to speak to him regarding a… personal matter. I would rather not discuss it here, not in the shelter of the Maker.”

“Of course. Sadly I have no wisdom for you regarding his whereabouts – I have not seen him since we took dinner last night, as I have been here all morning.”

“Of course. And he would not have escaped your notice if he had come in –“

She interrupts him with a light laugh. “I fear you know better than most that Gawain rarely escapes anyone’s notice.”

He hesitates for a long moment before smiling and nodding. “Indeed. I regret having disturbed you, Sister.”

“Never a disturbance, my lord. Although… whilst you are here, would you mind if I offered you a verse for advice?”

“Who am I to spurn the teachings of the promised?” He bows shortly, before straightening as she stands up to face him.

“We forget all too easily that the discomforts around us are fleeting. Gawain, though often more burden than blessing, will pass – as all things do. 'My faith sustains me, I shall not fear the legion should they set themselves against me.' Take comfort in that, at least, if nothing else.” She bows to him, before taking her seat once more, and Frederick nods curtly before taking his leave, footsteps ringing out through the otherwise-silent Chantry.

After a long moment, she grimaces as Gawain pinches her ankle. “Stop it.”

“More burden than blessing? Thanks a bunch.” He emerges from underneath the pew, taking a seat next to her and throwing an arm around her shoulder. “Last time I rope you into covering for me.”

“Fourth time this month, Gawain.” She hesitates before leaning into him. “I won’t do it again.”

He chuckles. “Oh, Myra. You bloody will, and you know it. But thanks, I really do appreciate it.”

“Idiot. What did you do this time?”

“Might have been caught in someone’s chambers –“

“Gawain!”

“Hey, he invited me up there!”

“That is – oh, Gawain, please stop getting into such trouble. Mother’s going to be so upset.”

“More like Elaine’s going to scold me and Percival’s going to write another scathing letter once he’s got his head out of Annette’s arse –“

The gasp that escapes her is more amused than she dare let on. “Gawain! We are in th-“

“Oh, you laughed, don’t deny it.” He grins and kisses the crown of her head. “I swear, you’re the only normal one out of us all. And you’re going to be sent away before we know it.”

“Not far. They wouldn’t send me out of the Marches, not now.”

“Wouldn’t they?” He pulls back to regard her, looking unusually serious. “I heard Mother talk about the Conclave that the Divine plans to hold in Ferelden.”

“Oh. ”

“Exactly.” They both knew that their mother would use the good Trevelyan name as leverage to get an ear to the ground at such an auspicious meeting.

Myra shakes her head slightly. “If the Maker wills it, I’ll be there.”

“Pray that He is kind and sends me with you,” murmurs Gawain. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m never alone, not really.”

“The Maker’s presence does not count, even if you are a Sister.”

She sighs, nudging his cheek with her nose. “You know as well as I that your own future isn’t certain until after the Conclave. If the Templars remain apart –“

“I won’t join them, I know.” He sighs. “All the more reason I should go –“

“Yes, because letting you loose in the land of the dog-lords is exactly what Mother would think of as a good idea,” Myra drawls.

He laughs. “They’re good people.”

“I know, but Mother…”

“Has little regard for anyone with a kind heart. Why else would she ship you off to the Chantry?”

“Gawain...”

He sighs deeply, and she stills. “The world is changing. I fear for what that means.” He lapses into silence, and they remain side-by-side for a long time, lost to the soft words of the Chant and the light.


	2. 1 - The Breach

Everything fragments.

Nightmares. Pain. A soft push and a spoken word – falling into? No, _out_ _of_ -

Thud.

* * *

 

She wakes up in manacles.

The woman dressed in the garb of a Seeker glares her down, but all that matters to Myra are the words that she has just spoken. The Conclave had failed – ended in death and destruction, and she was the only one who escaped the blast that killed thousands.

“Bu-but I can’t… I can’t be…” The only one. His face flashes before her eyes. She rails at her cuffs, shaking her head. “No! No, please tell me he’s… he can’t be – Maker, _please_ , he _can’t_ be!”

“Someone was with you at the Conclave?” The woman’s expression softens slightly. “I am sorry.”

“Please...” Her hands fall into her lap, eyes closing as the tears begin to slip down her face. “Not him. Not Gawain. He wasn't even... he wasn’t supposed to – _aah!_ “ Her hand begins to hurt again, her confusion mounting. “What's happening?!”

The Seeker hesitates for a long moment, eyes narrowing as she assesses the situation.

“Come. See for yourself.”

* * *

 

The demon emerges from the ground behind the Seeker, and Myra wants to shout out to her, to warn her – but there is no time for words. Stooping to the ground, she picks up an abandoned blade with both hands, trying to recall Gawain's boastful attempts at swordplay.

Cassandra turns on her, blade up. “Drop your weapon. Now.”

Myra does not hesitate, dropping the sword and holding her hands up. “Sorry! I just -”

Cassandra sighs, shaking her head. “No, this is ridiculous. I cannot protect you from everything.”

“But I can -” She stops, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply. This was too much, all of this was too much to bear. “I can barely protect myself.”

“You have never wielded a blade?”

“I was... I was promised to the Chantry, I am only a Sister.”

“I will remember that you cooperated,” murmurs the Seeker, beckoning her onwards. “For now, we have to press on. Just... be careful with that.”

Everything whirls past them in a blur. Myra can feel herself being pulled along like a dog on a string and she can only try to keep up.

* * *

 

The problems continue when they reach what Cassandra had dared to call 'reinforcements'. Before she could even ask what the tear in the Veil was, an elf grabs her hand and holds it up to the Rift and -

_**power** _

\- she could not pull back if she tried. She can feel the tear in the air, feels the jagged edges pull together sharply, the vapours swirling and eddying around the seams. She yanks her hand away and the whole thing collapses in on itself, closing with a crack.

The Seeker stares at her. The elf looks rather pleased with himself. She nurses her hand for a moment, trying to remember what it felt like before this... mark.

“Ah, please – do not worry it so much,” cautions the elf. “It will only hurt more.”

“What is it?”

“It appears to be our only hope. Which, by the way, makes you a bona fide hero.” The dwarf smiles crookedly. “Seems like I can't catch a break around here – right, Seeker?”

Cassandra glares at him. Myra takes a deep breath, shaking her head slightly.

“I'm not – look, I'm just... _stuck_ with this. But if it can close that...” she gestures to the wound in the sky, and the three follow her gaze.

“Then we press on. Though, perhaps our journey may be easier with introductions?” The elf offers a short bow. “I am Solas. I am sure you are familiar with Cassandra, and this is -”

“Varric Tethras, at your service.” He throws her a wink, and for the first time a little tension falls away from Myra's shoulders. “Now, how about we save the world?”

* * *

 

She barely remembers how they find their way back to the Temple – a blur of angry faces, accusations and near-constant advancing – but as her feet hit the floor she almost falters completely. Cassandra's hand is at her elbow, guiding her on, but the crunch of bone dust underneath her feet undoes her.

“How can you bear it?” she whispers. “All those people...”

“We cannot let it be in vain,” the Seeker responds quietly. Myra nods, trying not to look at the ground. Gawain was here. Somewhere, Gawain remained – probably not even whole now. Her heart hurts, one hand reaching out to the mangled remains of a poor soul -

“Don't.” Solas holds her wrist lightly, voice gentle. “Let them rest.”

“They should be peaceful. They deserve that much, at least.”

“Rarely are people rewarded with what they deserve.”

She pulls her arm back from his grip, nodding wordlessly as they continue.

* * *

 

Pulling the Rift open is infinitely more difficult than closing one, but as she watches the air rip apart she cannot help but feel an impossible weight settle on her shoulders. Whatever this mark was, it was a dangerous tool. She could only pray that it would disappear, along with the Breach.

And then a demon emerges, and between Cassandra shoving her out of the way and Solas screaming at her to close the rift, she realises that this new world she finds herself in is far, far too much for her to bear.

She cries out, falling to her knees as her arm reaches out to the Breach of its own accord.

_Maker, it hurts! Please, please, I cannot -_


	3. 2 - Haven

She sits in the Chantry in silence, hands folded in her lap and head bowed in prayer. There was a lot to do for this new inquisition – though even the name feels ridiculous on her tongue. Letters to write with the ambassador, sword lessons with the commander, planning with the Seeker and the spymistress – and yet, right now, all she can do is mourn.

_Gawain. You… you stubborn, selfish idiot. What am I going to tell Mother?_

Cassandra jolts her out of her thoughts, a hand on her shoulder. “Was he dear to you?”

“What?”

“When you awoke, you spoke of a man – someone at the Conclave...” She tilts her head sympathetically. “You think of him now.”

Myra nods, gazing up at Andraste's image. “My brother. He wasn't... he was supposed to be at home, but he stowed away to look after me – said I shouldn't be...” _Alone_. But now she was – alone and lost in an adventure that should surely have belonged to him. She closes her eyes. “Mother would never have known, if I had not survived.”

Cassandra sits next to her, staring up at the image of Andraste. “It is difficult to lose a brother, especially an older one.” Her voice is soft, quite the change from the warrior's timbre that had been barking orders since dawn. “You believe them indestructible, unmovable. And then they are gone, and you are left with nothing.”

“Not quite nothing.” Myra smiles, humourless and tired. “The pain remains. Will it always hurt this much?”

She does not respond immediately, instead offering a light hand on the woman's arm. “Yes,” she says finally. “Always. But you will embrace it one day as an equal, and find his memory more than worth the pain.”

“I don't want the memories. I want _him_. I half-expect him to be hiding under the pews again, to slide out after everyone's gone and make some ridiculous excuse for missing my sermons – I want... Maker, I want him _back_! I want to trade my life for his, anything! Just tell me he's not... not really...”

She trails off, fists tight in her lap as the memories come unbidden. _Gawain, throwing mud at Lord Frederick's boys. Gawain, braiding her hair for her first suitor and teasing her for sulking. Gawain, holding her when she cries about rough men and coming home the next day with a black eye and a promise -_

_Gawain, shouldering his shield on the road as he tells the Templars dirty jokes, so much life in him._

She breaks, hiding her face in her hands as the ache tears at her throat, hollow sobs shaking her to the core. The Seeker carefully pulls her towards her chest, arms gentle as she lets the woman ride out the worst of the storm.

“The Light shall lead him safely through the paths of this world, and into the next,” she intones in a soft voice, and Myra lets the words roll over her, mourning her brother with her own exhaustion.

* * *

 

The Commander cuts quite the figure, she had to admit. It had been a joke, back home, that Fereldan men grew like trees – tall and thick, the Marchers had laughed. But there was more than a little truth to that, she could see now. His outfit, of course, made him all the more imposing. He would make a fine leader for this cause if he so desired to be, of that she had no doubt.

But even his good looks could not save him from the mental flagellation she was currently dreaming up in her head. If he said those blasted words one more time...

“Blade _up_ , Lady Trevelyan.”

She glares at him before hoisting the sword up in front of her, settling into the stance he had made her practise for hours the previous day. He assesses her for a moment, nodding slightly, before gesturing to the dummy in front of her.

“When you are ready, attack each targeted area in sequence until I call for you to stop.”

“What is the point in this? Nobody remains _that_ still -”

“You're using techniques completely foreign to your body. Your muscles need to learn the basics before you pit yourself against a real target. I know this may seem tedious,” he adds, offering her a kind look, “but there really is no other way to prepare you. The world outside the Chantry is not a safe one, especially for us heretics.”

She does not smile at that.

“Now. When you are ready.”

It is surprisingly easy, she discovers, to get angry with a sword in her hands. The dummy suffers, and the Commander seems surprised when he calls for her to stop. But the approving look in Cassandra's eyes across the courtyard is worth it.

* * *

 

Varric is writing letters when she finds him, shoulders aching and confidence bruised. He gives her the once-over, chuckling weakly.

“I take it training is going well?” he asks. She glares in response, setting herself down opposite him with a groan.

“Well enough, I suppose. Heard anything interesting?”

He shrugs. “Nothing important, just news from home.” Another update from Daisy that demanded a response – she was his lifeline to Kirkwall, keeping her own ear to the ground when it was safe to garner news of their friends.

She watches as his quill flies over the parchment, smiling slightly. “I hope they're all alright.”

“They make do. It's why I like 'em.” They sit in an amiable silence as he finishes his work and she stretches out the worst of the hurt, before he fixes her with a worried look. “So, now that I have you away from the top brass... how are you doing? Really, I mean.”

“I'll make do,” she quips, smiling as he chuckles. “It's... terrifying, in truth. But until I find a way to use this -” she raises her marked hand, flexing her fingers as the cracks glow, “I have no choice but to move forward.”

He considers this for a long moment. “Mind if I give you some advice? You, ah... you might want to consider running at the first opportunity.” He leans over, squeezing her arm for a moment. “I've written enough tragedies to recognise where this is going.”

She stares at him for a long moment, back stiffening as she pulls back. “What?”

“You think we're all going to walk away from this mess? You survived it once, and Maker only knows how, but not even the _Champion_ is that lucky. I'm just saying, don't rely on miracles. You're a good person, and trust me – we need as many of them in the world right now as we can get.”

“I – I can't -”

“Go home,” he murmurs in a low voice, almost pleading as his fingers tighten around her arm once more. “Find your family. Mourn your brother. But live – far away from this mess, just live.” He almost offers her safe passage – between Rivaini and his few contacts in Ferelden, he could guarantee a swift journey. But she pulls back, hauling herself to her feet. There is a rigidity to her shoulders, a straightness of the back that was not there before.

“I... I should go.”

He does not say anything else, simply offering a nod and a tight smile as he watches her leave. He wonders if she will forgive him. He wonders if she will ever relax again.

He does not regret it. Too many good people have already died. She should not be one of them.


End file.
